


tumblr fic 2015

by aweekofsaturdays



Series: tumblr ficlets 2015 [8]
Category: Hockey RPF, Kingsman (Movies), Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Comeplay, F/M, Flirting, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Realism, Olympics, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Trans Character, skaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays/pseuds/aweekofsaturdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets & drabbles posted on my tumblr in 2015. Pairings, prompts/themes, and ratings in chapter titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry/Eggsy, Harry lives + angst, T

Forgiveness can’t always be easy. Because when you’re an addict, when you’re in withdrawal (from any kind of substance, including love), you might latch onto anything that comes back that promises to reduce the amount of pain you’re feeling. But grief, and loss - these create a little tingle of doubt in you where there was never doubt before. And it lasts.

When Harry sits with Eggsy at his bedside, when Eggsy wakes up from that nightmare in Harry’s arms (trembling), when Eggsy sits at the breakfast table and watches as Harry makes eggs, of all things - there’s a tiny frisson of doubt in Eggsy’s mind which makes it impossible for relief to kick in. Eggsy’s chest always that little bit tighter, his hands always unconsciously clenched (and he has to really think about unfurrowing his brow) because now that he’s not on the pills or anything else anymore, and he can’t even drink himself into quiet, there’s always that little part of him that thinks “this can’t possibly be real” or “don’t get too comfortable, Eggsy.” 

And at some point, living with that doubt becomes exhausting, becomes a mantra -- “don’t take it for granted, Eggsy, don’t forget that you’re trash and that this could all be taken away from you so easily.” 

He wants to make it all go away - because the one thing he can’t make disappear is the knowledge that Harry. Left. That now he knows it’s possible, that the man who swept him up and changed him and tolerated his trashbag upbringing and manners and everything - that Eggsy could be left behind again. 

And so he vacillates between affection and coldness, between need and distance; and this is the rebuilding process that begins, one tiny, brave step at a time.


	2. Harry/Eggsy, Harry lives part 2, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by/for [coffeeinallcaps](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps)

Here’s the thing though - for the first time in Eggsy’s life, he’s surrounded by people who maybe aren’t going to let him spiral down into everything that’s tugging at him. That Kingsmen are trained to seek out the signs of breakage at every opportunity. Usually, it’s to exploit the fractures and see how they splinter. But his Kingsmen will see those signs and they won’t let him sink down for long.

Merlin comes to him once, after a meeting in which Harry presides as Arthur for the first time. Eggsy slouches sullenly in his chair, sulky curvature of his spine disrupting the pin-straight lines of his Kingsman-issue suit (his second, because the first was unbearable). 

Roxy sneaks him glances throughout the meeting, offended by his laxity but too polite to say anything when she knows exactly why he does it. She touches his shoulder gently on the way out and leaves, and he’s comforted even as he appreciates her self-containment and her expression that this is his own barrel of unresolved issues to shoulder. 

Harry lingers awkwardly, and then clears his throat and exits, muttering about assignments to be reviewed. But Merlin stays, oddly, and keeps his eyes on Eggsy, just staring until Eggsy snaps out a defense and Merlin says gently - “I think you should talk to someone.”

Kingsmen are exposed to a particular amount of trauma daily; even with one’s humanity stripped down and tucked away neatly into a tiny box in one’s subconscious, the mission sometimes comes back in the middle of the night to haunt one with images of blood pooling around those who may or may not have deserved it. It’s easy to be righteous in the daylight; but in the wee hours it’s much more difficult to know if one acted properly.

And so it makes sense to Eggsy that of course they have a therapist - of course they do. It’s only responsible - he suspects that this is a new implementation, perhaps one of Harry’s, but he doesn’t ask. Seems an oddity in such a quintessentially English organization. 

He goes, grudgingly, knowing that there’s something broken in him, something he needs to mend, something that needs to be let out into the air to breathe. Against all odds, he finds that he likes her; she’s slim and almost ethereal, and as times goes on she manages to manhandle him into honesty with himself and with her without him knowing quite how he got there.

Months later - and Eggsy is still living in Harry’s house, still has his own bedroom and isn’t questioned when sometimes he leaves at all hours to walk or drive around aimlessly, thinking - it’s months later when Eggsy wakes up in the sitting room, disoriented. It’s the odd hours of the morning, when day hasn’t fully woken up yet and night is putting her to bed, and he wonders why he awoke (now that he’s not strung out on grief and terror and confusion, he’s actually sleeping). He remembers falling asleep on the couch, remembers not knowing where Harry was, but this doesn’t explain the warmth underneath his cheek, until he blinks blearily and realizes that at some point, Harry has come home. 

He’s insinuated himself somehow next to Eggsy, and it’s his thigh that’s pillowing Eggsy’s cheek and his long fingers that are carding gently through Eggsy’s hair. Normally, Eggsy would have instantly felt a flash of panic, of that doubt and anxiety that sinks through everything when loss occurs, but the softness of the morning and the comfort wash it all away. 

Eggsy sighs, shifting slightly, and Harry pauses; when Eggsy doesn’t move further, the fingers continue their gentle path, and Eggsy feels something begin to uncurl inside him. He moves slowly, touches the line of Harry’s thigh, tentatively, noting the soft weave of his pajamas, enjoying the warmth against his cheek where he’s turned away from Harry. And all the while those fingers continue their recurring journey, spelling some kind of slow reassurance into the lines of his hair.

Nothing is perfect, and healing is a journey, his therapist always reminds him - and down is as likely a direction as up, though time moves in waves and curves. But in this moment, Eggsy thinks that perhaps death is something he can grapple with, something that isn’t just about Harry or Gary Unwin Sr or any one person in particular - that death is a fear of scarcity, of Lack Of Something, and maybe at least for now he can try to be present in his life that for once lacks for nothing.


	3. Sid/Jonny, Olympics snippet, G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> batmandeh requested "things you said when we were on top of the world" for [this meme](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/125682799687/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a).

Someone thought it would be hilarious to put the two Canadian captains together in a hotel room. Jonny could have almost resented Crosby getting the C for the games this time around, but there was something about that guy that was just so…good. Like you could trust him with anything and he’d take it with a serious expression and earnestly reassure you that he’d take care of it, and you’d know he would, whatever it was.

So stuck in a room together, waiting to kick USA's collective asses, all Toews can think of to ask is, “Do you ever sleep?” 

Sid, caught off guard, shoots a small, private smile his ways, and says, shockingly, “Only if there’s nothing better to do.”


	4. Shitty/Lardo, getting together, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> robokittens requested "each time we climb the stairs, something changes" for [this meme](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/post/125682799687/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a).

They’ve climbed the stairs together a thousand times for a thousand different reasons. He’s stumbled back to his room drunk after an epikegster, Lardo supporting him with one loose arm, loosening his binder for him, and crashing in the windowseat until morning shone its rays through the window unforgivingly.

They’ve tottered up the stairs together giggling, stoned, shushing each other because it was 2pm and 2pm was Jack’s special nap time and Bitty’s baking time and those boys thought they were so good at keeping a secret but of course everyone knew.

Lardo’s dragged him up the stairs insistently, shoving him towards his bedroom and tripping him onto his bed when he’s been awake for three straight days studying and can’t seem to make his eyes focus.

Every time it’s something different, every time there are fingers that catch on hems and glances never quite exchanged. This time it’s gentle, meandering, a quiet invitation and an “OK.” They climb the stairs together, and everything changes.


	5. Scott/Stiles, Stoner bfs 1 - pre-slash, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> always for [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish), in our universe.

Scott and Stiles stumbling home together after a long afternoon with the last rays of the sunlight touching the ends of their hair, comparing bruises and scrapes, complaining about wearing through the soles of their shoes.

Scott and Stiles weaving in and out of each others’ paths, throwing carefully casual punches and ducking away, laughing and giving each other shit the whole way - alternating between skating and walking, tripping over each other constantly. 

Scott and Stiles wondering what it’d be like if they were girls, if they’d still be skaters, if girls’ Vans were shittier or more expensive because of dumbass gender marketing - Stiles ranting and Scott just agreeing with him, eyes wide, because he’s always known that gender is a spectrum and women are important.

Scott and Stiles once in a while getting their hands on some pot, stealing away down to the college parking lot to let smoke wind through their lungs and to watch the way each others’ eyelashes curl softly against their cheeks and pretend they’re not looking.


	6. Blue/Gansey, Halsey "Drive", G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted) asked:  
>  Halsey's "Drive" is giving me INSANE Blue/Gansey feels and I CANT EVEN.

They drive over the curves of the highway, pinkies barely touching from where their hands lie next to each other on her seat; his soft lips on her neck when he lets her drive, (don’t tell anyone I let you drive, Blue, they’ll all be at me and Ronan will destroy Pig and I can’t—)

But there was something about these moments that always felt like home to each other, that felt like more than words and less than every nuance a word could have given them; he wants to kiss her so badly but the something in him that believes in Glendower, believes in a world which has shown itself to him in glimpses and snatches - that something holds his jaw in icy-tipped fingers and keeps his face turned away from hers. 

And they drive, and everything is so new and there’s something frightening growing in each of them and while it’s often light that draws people together, with Gansey and Blue it’s dark, the shades of indigo wrapping insidious fingers around their bones and their throats. They revel in this something of the unknown, and the neon lights of drive-by liquor stores reflect hazily off of the milk-soft fog as they wind their way ever-upward through the mountains, turning down towards a far-distant sea.


	7. Scott/Stiles, Stoner bfs 2 - shotgunning + first kiss, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Alex wrote a kiss](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/128316771657/aweekofsaturdays-and-i-were-having-a-lot-of-skater) and then I had to write it from the other perspective.

Stiles is careful to hold the joint steady in his long fingers (had they always been so long? was it weird how long they were? why had his dad never made him take piano? he could have been a GOD) and pretend like he knows what he’s doing. A girl in his class had told him how to hold it, how to look good, and over the summer, he and Scott had smoked enough to make it look a little less stilted.

Scott’s watching him now, lids slow and heavy, smile faint and dopey where he’s tracking Stiles’ movements from a lazy lean on his own shoulder. His eyes are careful in tracing Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles is awkward, sure that Scott’s noticing his bitten nails, his inability to stay calm and just keep going. He hands over the joint quickly, and Scott sits up to pinch it carefully from between Stiles’ trembling fingers. (Why are his hands shaking? They’re not, it’s fine, count them– everything’s fine. Scott’s here. Everything’s good.)

Scott considers the joint for a second, and Stiles is almost about to chime in with a dumb joke, anything to snap him out of it, when Scott draws in a deep drag, closing his eyes in bliss. Stiles can’t believe he gets to watch him do this, gets to let himself wonder and write it off to his stoned ability to focus on any one thing for inordinate amounts of time (usually Scott, mostly Scott).

He expects Scott to breathe out, a long plume of smoke winding its way upward into the sunset– but Scott says tightly, “Shotgun this,” and Stiles is having a heart attack, but he’s playing it cool, leaning forward and saying something, and he thinks he can’t bear it being this close to Scott’s mouth and breathing in his air. But he’s lucky, and after a moment Scott is closing the distance and Stiles feels it down to his toes, a sticky sweet press of lips before Scott pulls away and ducks his head, maybe embarrassed or just not ready yet for what comes next.

And Stiles is suddenly livid, in the way he knows is going to burn out in thirty seconds but for right now he is furious because “are you kidding me? That’s going to be our first kiss??” And he’s still talking, waving his hands around but he can’t even hear anything anymore because he dives for Scott hands first, wrapping his arms around Scott and grabbing his hair and his shirt and anything he can reach, and the press of their lips this time is anything but tentative because this is them and it’s obvious, and Stiles could literally keep kissing Scott until he runs out of air because there’s never been anything so perfect in his whole entire life.

It takes a moment for them to loosen their grips a little, catching their breaths and trading soft kisses every few moments; the joint is long-forgotten, and Stiles can feel himself about to say something horrendously stupid like “Marry me.” So he babbles about wooing Scott so earnestly, and he scrubs his palms on his jeans, playing it off - he was lucky, so so lucky, that could have all gone so much differently, and what if–

“Stiles.” Scott hasn’t stopped looking at him since he looked up, checking if he’s OK like Scott always does on reflex.

“Yes. Yes, hi, hello, I am here.” Stiles makes deliberate eye contact, pretending to be so serious before he giggles again. “All right behind the eyes and all that.” He can’t stop talking, the weed and the relief sending tingles sliding along his lips and tongue, keeping him loose and reckless, and he smacks a palm down on Scott’s leg lightly. “I am perfect, loosey-goosey–”

Scott cuts him off, grabbing gently at one of his wrists before he can flail his way out of this situation they’ve found themselves in. “Stiles– you were trying to woo me? Like a– like a wolf?”

Stiles’ cheeks get blotchier, blush spreading pink across the bridge of his nose. “I– yes. I asked Lydia what to do.”

“Not the worst plan you’ve ever had.” Scott grins, and one of his palms is warm at the nape of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles sags into it a little because he remembers this is Scotty, HIS Scotty, and that it would have taken so much more to ruin everything.


	8. Scott/Stiles, Stoner bfs 3 - hotboxing the Jeep, M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not!fic for queerlyalex.

Imagine them getting into the Jeep together after school on Friday and Scott’s mom is working a night shift at the hospital and Stiles’ dad is working a night shift at the station (or maybe they’re off on a date with each other and they LIED but that’s besides the point) because Scott and Stiles don’t have to be anywhere. 

They peel out of the parking lot after school in the Jeep, Scott hanging on for dear life and trying to look chill, baseball cap with floral brim and board shorts and “holy fucking shit THREE DAY FUCKING WEEKEND” because I guess it’s Labor day or something. And Stiles looks at Scott and grins like he’s a fucking magical human and they are just so jazzed forever?? 

They drive into the woods to a spot where they can still see the sky and Scott grins at Stiles like he’s the cat that got the biggest fucking canary and he pulls a blunt out of his backpack and it’s beautiful, tastes like something sweet when Stiles takes it from him (after he offered, like Stiles’d be so rude) and sticks it in his mouth. 

“Peach rolling papers,” Scott explains, and Stiles is pretty sure no one’s ever been as in love with someone as he is with Scott at that moment, and of course they hot box the jeep because they can. That first hit is always the one they share, one of them taking a huge toke and the other one waiting patiently to share it, mouth to mouth, lips sticky and tasting like weed and sunshine. 

Once they’re stoned they can’t keep their hands off each other, it’s like they’re the worst fucking cliche because they talk about how long each other’s eyelashes are and how it feels when they press fingertips into each other’s skin hard (good) and how it feels when they wrap warm hands around each other’s dicks (better) and how it just feels like it goes on forever and ever and nothing can possibly exist outside of their little car-box in the middle of the forest (best).


	9. Scott/Stiles, stoner bfs 4 - pizza & doin the do, E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So of course then Alex wrote [this](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/134573541947/aweekofsaturdays-ok-so-queerlyalex-and-i-have) and I had to retaliate with vaguely not!ficcy stoner porn. FIGHT ME.

They sober up enough to drive back, and Melissa’s shift’s not over til morning so they go to Scott’s house, curl up together in his warm bed near the window. They trade hits off Scott’s pretty pipe, the smoke curling up into the air and out into the evening, little tendrils and Stiles plays with them wide-eyed, batting at them like a puppy to make Scott laugh.

Scott looks at Stiles through the purple glass, declares “you look better in real colors, all purple isn’t for you” and Stiles carefully grabs it and sets it aside gently, holding back laughter, before he tackles Scott, nuzzling that sharp nose into his neck and taking deep lungfuls of Scott’s scent and nipping him. Scott teases him, “what are you doing you idiot, I probably just smell like weed” and Stiles makes noise haughtily about how smoking gives him werewolf senses, he can smell what Scott’s SOUL WANTS and his soul wants PIZZA with BACON and Scott is just like, “dude that is so uncanny. How could you know. We’re psychic. Totally. Same page. Broooooooo.”

They order Domino’s and ravage an enormous pizza when it comes, trading kisses over the wreckage of the boxes, not even a crust left behind. Scott pets Stiles’ tummy and Stiles complains, “so fullllllll, distract me, Scotty, come onnnn–” and Scott pretends he’s unaffected but the way Stiles whines makes him want to shove him down, yank his ass up in the air and fuck him til he screams.

So he starts small, slides down so he can press kisses and bites to Stiles’ stomach, rubbing his nose through the dark trail of hair below his belly button, rubs his cheek against it, “so soft here, Stiles, like a kitten.” Stiles rubbing his hands over his face, going out of his mind with how Scott’s teasing him, going soooo slowlyyyy, time can’t possibly be moving this slowly, come ON, godDAMMIT.

Scott tugs down Stiles’ sweatpants, nosing at his dick and slowly, sloppily sucking him down, savoring the taste and feeling the heat and the smoothness of Stiles’ dick against his tongue, his cheek. He looks up at Stiles who just looks…surprised, maybe, his mouth red and bitten and slick and open, and he’s panting, head coming off the bed and hands gripping the coverlet. He thrusts up into Scott’s mouth a little and Scott lets him, keeps it sloppy and loose and just taking his time, until at some point Stiles comes almost out of nowhere, shaking and moaning as his come slips out of Scott’s mouth and down his cheek.

Stiles is barely done riding out his orgasm when he grabs Scott, yanks him up, licks the come off his cheek, kisses him messily, still moaning– “Scott–Scotty– so good for me, thank you, fuck, you’re so good at that–” and Scott shivers, comes up to straddle Stiles. He breaks the kiss to grab the pipe, checks the bowl, and takes a huge hit, petting Stiles’ face and holding his throat while Stiles calms down. Scott’s still hard but it feels secondary for the moment, he wants to see the whole thing, how Stiles comes down, ask him what he wants next.

Stiles’ breathing slows and Scott takes the opportunity to lean in with lungs full of sweet smoke, shotgun him a beautiful hit and feel the stickiness of their lips, wipe off the last remnants of Stiles’ come painting their lips.

Stiles grins like it’s Christmas and grabs the lube off Scott’s desk, shoving Scott off him so he can lie back and go to town on himself. He opens himself up so sweetly, pressing in and groaning with the stretch of it as Scott watches and jerks himself lightly, brushing lightly over Stiles’ balls with his other hand, just the pads of his fingertips gently touching the thin skin.

Stiles gets impatient fast when he’s like this, when he’s already come and he’s sort of worn-out and a little desperate, everything feeling sharper when they’re high and Scott’s hovering over him like this. He makes grabby hands towards Scott and Scott laughs, trying to tease him but it comes out so earnest and low, “you’re so hot for my dick, Stiles, who woulda ever guessed, god you look so good when you’re needy.”

But he’s not mean, so he moves forward, angling himself right so they can stay face to face, pressing just the tip in, gently, making Stiles wait for it. Scott feels the friction of it on his dick, wants so badly to shove in but knows Stiles isn’t ready enough, and he can't bear to hurt him, so he pulls out to warm up a little more lube between his fingers and spread it on, shivering at the cling of it.

They have condoms but they almost never use them when they’re high, conceding to the necessary cleanup later as long as they get to be skin to skin, one of them inside the other at some point. Scott presses in again, slicker now, just moving so lightly, in shallow thrusts, working Stiles open with his dick. The fingers were a good start but he loves working Stiles’ body open with his dick like this, loves as the tight feeling lessens to bearable, can feel Stiles’s body warming up to him all around him and allowing the intrusion.

He finally bottoms out and just waits there for a minute, ducks his head to Stiles’s collarbone and leaves a string of hot kisses there, feeling as the sweat starts to build between them in contrast to the cool air from the still-open window, their own hot little cocoon. He reaches back for a moment to grab a blanket, drags it over them to seal in the heat, and Stiles’ eyes go wide as Scott changes angles accidentally.

As he presses his chest back down to Stiles’, Scott can feel Stiles’ dick nestled up between their stomachs and it feels bigger than a moment before as Stiles starts to get hard again, moaning and eyelids fluttering closed– “fuck, Scott, so good, you’re so good, so close like this.”

Scott starts a slow grind, just working himself in and out, patient as ever, feeling his skin start to spark the way it does when it’s really, really good between them, when everything aligns just right and they’re moving together. Stiles leans up for a kiss that’s little more than sharing air, dragging Scott down until he’s leaning over Stiles on his elbows, Stiles’ legs wrapped around his hips as the grind builds to a steady rhythm. Stiles reaches down to tilt Scott’s hips just a little, moving him until he gets the angle he likes, then Scott gets a satisfied groan and a “fuuuck yesss, god _please_.”

Everything starts to wind tighter for Scott soon enough, as the rhythm stretches out and on, as he surges so deep with every thrust it feels like he’s never gonna come out again, and Stiles urges him on with heels to his hips and the backs of his thighs. He’ll have bruises, if they’ll take. He shudders and all at once everything is too tight and he comes on a shout that feels like falling as everything clenches in him and he can feel himself spurting into Stiles’s hole, shivering and pushing so deep as Stiles kisses him and holds him close.

He’s still shaking intermittently when he pulls out, sits back on his heels and spreads Stiles’ legs to look at his puffy hole, sees his own come dripping out and fucking loves it, loves that he’s marked him here. Scott gently gathers it up and pushes a finger, then two, back in, using it as slick to carefully finger him, pressing his dick down into his stomach with the other hand and pressing up inside of him sharply at the same time. He watches as Stiles comes on a wail, hips tilting up and his dick fucking up into the air as he dribbles come all over himself.

Scott pulls out gently, grinning smugly, grabbing someone’s shirt to clean off his hands and make a cursory pass over Stiles’ stomach and ass. Stiles just lies there and trembles, wrung out and shocky.

Scott flops down next to him, and pets his face, and they hold each other through shivers and intertwine their legs as their breathing starts to slow. Their kisses are softer, sweeter, as they taste the sweat in the wells of each others’ lips and under their chins and at the base of their throats. They lie there for a moment, just breathing each other in, restful for a moment tangled together.

Scott can feel it the minute Stiles starts to get antsy, mumbles “I think my mom bought pizza rolls” into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and gets a wash of cold air and a suddenly half-emptier bed for his troubles. “Make me my own box!!” he yells, and rolls over to smoke a little more, finishing off the bowl and watching the white plumes spiral their way out the window, relishing the feel of his flannel sheets and waiting for Stiles to come back.


End file.
